Love How You Love Me
by Bendleshnitz
Summary: Like the horny eighteen-year-old you are, you don't think twice. There is no doubt, questioning or insecurity in your actions; only desire.


**Title:** Love How You Love Me  
**Pairing:** Scorpius Malfoy/Ginny Weasley  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Prompt:** "Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired"  
**Word Count:** 685**  
Beta: **celestlyn**  
Warnings:** Age disparity (18/43). Infidelity.  
**Summary:** Like the horny eighteen-year-old you are, you don't think twice. There is no doubt, questioning or insecurity in your actions; only desire.  
**A/N:** Originally written for Week #90 on **sortinghatdrabs** . It won Mod's Choice! Yay! I like how tricky this pairing is and always wanted to try it out.

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**Love How You Love Me**

Your sweet and awkward passion bathes my body with the eagerness of your strokes. Hands that can erase the wrinkles forming in the corner of my eyes and the subtle lines around my mouth that are getting deeper day by day, know the path to my weak surrender. Those chapped lips, always so dry, mark the sensitive skin of my neck with a roughness I can only stand thanks to the tenderness of your warm tongue touching the sore spot right after.

"Scorpius," I moan in that deep and desperate way my husband could never make me moan.

Your answer, like the sharp reflexes youth enables a teenage boy's body, is quick and determined. I can't even pretend my discomfort at being pressed against the kitchen counter with such strength before your hands shove my knickers to the side and two long fingers start thrusting inside of me. These inexperienced ways are what I hate and love the most. Like the horny eighteen-year-old you are, you don't think twice. There is no doubt, questioning or insecurity in your actions; only desire.

"Mrs. Potter," you groan against my bare shoulder. I feel you inhaling and your fingers stopping for the tiniest second. "Ginny," you try again.

I bit my lower lip, trying to suppress my amused chuckle at how much younger you sound when you call me by my first name. My hands get a tighter grip of the locks of silvery blond hair at the nape of your neck, the ones I suggested needed a hair-cut in that motherly voice ingrained in me for over twenty years.

"Mrs. Potter. Call me Mrs. Potter, Scorpius," I demand between gasps. As always, you oblige and regain that confidence I wish Harry had when we were younger, adding a third finger and moving your mouth to my right breast, closing your wet lips around the worn material of my bra.

"Mrs. Potter," you whisper huskily, gracing your teeth around my erect nipple, now visible as the wet fabric clings to my hanging breast.

Oh, how I miss the perkiness and roundness they used to have! Maybe just as much as my flat belly, free of the stretch marks three pregnancies gives a woman. Perhaps, even more than I miss my athletic bum. It's hard to remember how it felt having it in the right place, with no cellulite in sight.

And just as if you could have read my thoughts, you gasp, "You're so hot," with an awe in your deep voice that sets my skin on fire every time.

This time I can't resist my chuckle. These new generations... What happened with the 'you're so beautiful's and the 'you look handsome's? Now it's all hot or fuckable.

Your tongue swallows my amusement as it enters my mouth and strokes mine so hungrily that it consumes me in some way. There's nothing funny about that. I got it. The boy wants to make a statement, and oh is he good in doing it or what? His fingers are no longer moving inside of me but spreading my wetness around my nipple under the bra I just decide is too old to keep using.

My thoughts stop making a list of places I should go buy new lingerie when your cock enters me with one swift move. My heels bump against the kitchen cupboards with each frantic thrust and we both moan in unison at how arousing the echoing sound is.

"I love you, Mrs Potter," you blurt out as you come inside of me, just like any teenager does when he ejaculates. I know I caught my own husband professing his love to a pillow once during our first years of marriage.

"No, you don't," I whisper knowingly in that wise tone my age allowed me to conquer as I re-arrange my clothes and continue making dinner for my family, who not even ten minutes later start floo-ing into the house. "We have a guest, Harry. Al's friend is joining us."


End file.
